Jealousy
by stilettov
Summary: Irene/Jim. PWP. Jim, jealous, questions Irene about her dalliance with Sherlock Holmes. Warnings for seriously graphic imagery.


"You're jealous."

"I'm not."

It was written in every line in his body. He looked like he was about to snap, but he just sat there in front of the table, hands folded, staring intently at a candle burn. She'd chosen this bungalow as a place of refuge until they could safely implement the escape plan and leave the Caymans, and he'd gone along without any objections. But now that they were here, he had shut down.

"You knew he had a thing for me," she said in her most matter-of-fact tone as she went into the kitchen, taking up a mango and a paring knife. Quickly and deftly, she sliced the fruit, and cut it lengthwise into spears, then dumped them into one of those rustic little earthenware bowls. Then she went to sit across from him, setting the bowl between them.

He glanced at her, and it was remarkable how much he looked like an angry teenager, his mouth tight, eyes wide and bright.

"Yes," he admitted grudgingly.

"You knew," she continued, slipping a small piece of mango into her mouth, crushing it against the roof of her mouth. "That I was prepared to exploit it. You approved, I thought."

"That isn't the point," he said abruptly. "You wanted him. You want him."

She smiled bitterly at him. "Yes. I wanted him. There was tension. I was curious. I wanted to see what he would do."

He didn't look at her, but looked down at his hands, chewed the inside of his lip. Suddenly, Irene flashed on understanding. Now that she thought about it, she wondered that it hadn't occurred to her.

"You're jealous of me. And Sherlock. Jealous of both of us."

He looked back up at her, and the craving in his eyes was suddenly tangible. "Is it that obvious?"

"How do you foresee that scenario playing out?" she wondered aloud.

He reached over and plucked a piece of mango from the bowl, contemplating it before popping it into his mouth. "You don't want to know."

"Really," she arched a brow. "Why?"

"Because I'd kill him," he said softly, a small smile flickering across his face. "I'd fuck him, then kill him. I'd stick around to watch him die. Have myself a real nice day."

"You're sick," Irene remarked, not necessarily by way of criticism.

"You almost killed him. I mean, I may have delivered the means, but it was you that made him do it. Must've been some night, to break him like that."

"It was," she said truthfully. "Do you want me to lie?"

"No," he said, almost a whisper. "I want you to tell me about it."

"Oh, where to start," she leaned back in her chair, sucking mango juice off her fingers in a way that she knew would get him hot and bothered. "If I were to put it down to a word. Chaos. He's a very chaotic person. He surfs on it."

"A chaotic lover?"

"Oh, once in the saddle, he's driven enough, it's just that getting there is so...it's all about matching wits. It's not just being right, it's proving everyone else wrong."

Jim grinned. "That does get him hot, doesn't it. When he figured out the painting, he didn't even try to conceal it."

"You're not that different, really," Irene pointed out. "You both like to play high stakes. He's just...he has to work so much harder at being one of the good guys."

"And that turns you on?"

"The way he looked at me when I was holding the gun on him. He knew a round hadn't been chambered, but he had no idea I wouldn't check. It's that moment of conflict, when he is supremely certain of the outcome, but hasn't quite achieved it."

"He achieved it with you," Jim said, though now there was a purr in his voice. "What's he like in bed, Irene? How does he feel to you? Like an addict? You've had addicts before."

She stood, went over to him, hovered behind him and let her hands rest on his bare shoulders, finger just creeping under his wife-beater. He was tan from their sojourn in the tropics. All lanky muscle, he leaned back into her, closing his eyes.

"He's not patient. He likes to be cruel. But he's susceptible to the right touch." She finished this sentence, drawing a single finger up along Jim's throat. He tilted his head back, eyes still closed, nostrils flaring as he breathed in her scent. "He didn't wait for me, or anticipate me. He just...took me. On the sofa. I don't think he could stop himself."

"But it got you wet, didn't it," he murmured, eyes still closed, as though enjoying the vision.

"It's almost...less technique, more about energy. Like an opposing magnet that you try to shove together, and whatever it is in between creates this force. It's not chemistry, it's physics." She paused, letting her hands just rest on his skin. "His texture, it's what you'd expect. His lips feel wonderful. His hair is soft. And he feels good inside."

"Felt good," he corrected softly, almost as though reminding himself. "He's an enemy."

"Afraid I'm going to do it again?" Irene bent down and kissed his mouth, upside down.

"Terrified," Jim confessed, then pulled her down her a harder longer kiss. "I can't decide if I want to have him, and then watch you kill him, or the other way around."

"You're depraved."

"Maybe," he continued, rising, eyes open now. "Maybe I'll fuck you while he watches, and then cut his throat. Or gut him. Something slow. And you can kiss him goodnight."

Irene felt a wave of disgust followed by a thrill of excitement. Jim could do that to her, with those occasional glimpses into the deepest, most twisted desires of his soul. He didn't resist them, barely concealed them, and occasionally indulged them. The full knowledge that he would, given the opportunity, make good on that threat both disturbed her, and intimidated her. Which made her want him even more. It was a select few men that could really make her go weak at the knees, and while she acknowledged that her own pathology was damaged, it didn't matter. They were both attracted to power.

So she should've seen it coming when he seized her by the throat, lifted her and slammed her on the table. The hand that went down between her legs was not gentle, it was rough, and merciless, but she was already wet. She panted, despite having the breath knocked out of her, breasts heaving as she fought for air.

"Took you like this?" Jim asked in that soft voice, that ever so soft voice, kind, gentle, the soothing hush precision engineered to take prey unawares. "Am I doing it right?"

"James," she rasped, his hand still on her throat. She wasn't normally one for dominance games, not where she was the dominated one, but there was something dangerous in his expression and she wanted him to do his worst despite knowing what that might mean. She was the addict, addicted to his violence.

"Hmm?" He leaned closer, thumbing her larynx. "Speak up, lover."

"Take me. "

"Like Sherlock Holmes?"

"Like James Moriarty," she breathed.

He didn't release her throat as he entered her, his other hand clawed into her thigh, his hips working in slow methodical thrusts. She slung one leg over his shoulder and he turned to kiss her thigh, biting into it hard enough to elicit a choked cry from her.

"Wish I could've been there," he purred. "Shame I wasn't, really. I could've shot him while he was still inside you. Watched him twitch. Watched you come as that brilliant light in his eyes went out. Little death, big death. That would be really something, don't you think?"

It didn't matter what she thought. She was too far gone to find his imagery either charming or horrendous. She arched her arms back over her head, holding tightly to the head of the table, which rocked and bounced on its legs as he increased his pace. He let go of her throat and shoved her forward, climbing up between her legs and seizing her hair. She moaned softly, looking up into those black, glassy eyes. Bright, black, but so alive, blazing with rage and jealousy and triumph.

Irene breathed deep, and then flexed those disciplined muscles, making him groan now, and he tightened his grip on her hair. She leaned up, opened her mouth to his, and he devoured her, hips bucking now, jerking against her, the whole table shifting.

"James," she sighed, just a whisper.

"Darling," he said against her mouth.

"Harder."

With a snarl, he withdrew, hauled her off the table on to the terra cotta floor. She was too numbed by pleasure to feel any of the abrasive impact. She'd feel it later, but it didn't matter. The feeling of him inside her, ramming into her, abdomen slamming against her pubic bone, and driven all thoughts from her mind. Total absence of thought possessed her, even as her body responded, legs wrapping tight around him. Their eyes locked as he pushed himself into her as deep as he could go, lips drawn to show his teeth. She stared into those black eyes, lost herself in sharp obsidian nothingness.

When she came, it was like every muscle in her body seized. She arched back far enough that her spine curved in a shallow upside down "u", and each point of contact sent jolts of electricity firing through her. He was there too, gasping for air as he held fast to her hair and let out an animal noise she had no name for. Then the pair of them collapsed simultaneously, both going utterly still, breathing postponed, so relaxed that the only death could slacken them any further.

Irene was the first to inhale, but Jim seemed determined to ride it out. After a moment, he took a shallow breath, then a deeper one, and looked at her with eyes that were sleepy, softened now with afterglow.

"Was it like that?" he asked, his face curled into an intoxicated grin. "Was he like me?"

"No one is like you."

"If you should run into him again..."

Irene considered, then smiled, traced his lips with her fingers. "I'll save you a turn."

"That's my girl."


End file.
